


Protect

by chibistarlyte



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Drunk Shinon, Fist Fights, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slurs, well not really fist fight but close enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3790507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibistarlyte/pseuds/chibistarlyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ike always felt the need to protect Soren, and, in his own way, Soren also felt the need to protect Ike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protect

**Author's Note:**

> Moved over from FFnet. :3
> 
> I always found Soren and Shinon's relationship (if you could even call it that, really) to be interesting, and I really wanted to write about them fighting. And of course, there has to be a little, teesy-weensy bit of Ike/Soren on the side. :D
> 
> Many thanks to akisage for being my beta!
> 
> Enjoy!

Ike always felt the need to protect Soren.

Granted the sage could hold his own in battle, especially those of the verbal kind, he still felt the need to protect him. It was for that reason that Ike hated watching the fights escalate between Soren and Shinon. They would usually start out with a snide remark or two on the archer's part, which was met with a witty rebuttal. Then began the back and forth name-calling, both men seething and ready to kill the other. Soren rarely raised his voice—Shinon was always the one to start yelling. Once that happened, everyone was too frightened to step between the two for fear of being slaughtered.

When the altercations died down, both avoided each other like the plague. Shinon would drunkenly rant about how awful Soren was, and Soren always kept to himself and never spoke a word of the incidents. However, once couldn't help but notice the deadly daggers that those ruby eyes shot the sniper's way.

Tonight was worse than any other time, though. Much worse.

It all started with a casually cruel comment from an inebriated Shinon. He bumped none-too-gently into Soren, who had been carrying stacks of parchment, quills, and inkwells from tent to tent, keeping track of the various things he recorded for the army. Everything took a tumble upon collision, one of the inkwells spilling open and staining the redhead's shirt the same greenish-black hue of the sage's hair.

"Out of my way, filth."

Soren nearly gagged at the stench of alcohol radiating off Shinon as he knelt down to gather everything that had fallen. "Filth? This coming from a drunken low-life with ink all down his front," he said pointedly as he brought himself to stand, materials in hand.

A loud crack caught the attention of half the camp as Shinon's fist connected with Soren's face. Parchment and quills flew all over the place, littering the ground once more. The sage stumbled backwards, hands covering the streams of blood that cascaded from his nostrils. Soren was in as much shock as every other witness—Shinon had never gotten physical before. He tried to remain calm and collected, despite the throbbing in his bruising nose and the stares from the troops as everyone waited in stunned silence to see what in Tellius would happen next.

"You think you know everything, Mr. Know-It-All," the redhead slurred, pointing a shaking, accusing finger at the tactician. "But you don't know a damn thing, about anything or anyone! All you care about this that blue-haired oaf of a commander!"

That struck a chord with Soren. He didn't care what people said about him, but if _anyone_ badmouthed Ike…

"Insult Ike again. I _dare_ you," the sage threatened in a nasally voice that was far less intimidating than the glare set in his blood red irises. "Unlike him, you are _nothing_."

At that, Shinon let out a sadistic laugh, swaying under the influence of too much rum. "Don't think I don't know exactly what you are," he spat, nearly falling over as he spoke vehemently. "You're pathetic, a fraud, a cowardly lap dog who can't even _function_ without poor Ikey-poo! Your magic would be nothing if you hadn't sold your soul for power! You say I'm nothing, but you're just the _same_!"

Soren's eyes bled enmity that shouldn't even be fathomable by beorc standards. If looks could kill, Shinon would be dead a thousand times over. Rage boiled so fiercely in in the tactician's core that his quick wit failed him for the first time in his life. He could do nothing but stand there, hands curled into fists and quaking in ire. The adrenaline coursing through his veins numbed the pain of his nails digging trenches in his palms, the pain of his newly broken nose, and the pain of the hidden truth in Shinon's false assumptions.

"Maybe someone could get the commander before this gets out of hand," people whispered back and forth, though no one dared to move.

"Aww, lookit! I've made brainiac here speechless!" the sniper roared with laughter. "Whassa matter? Cat subhuman got your tongue?"

Unfortunate, the redhead, in his intoxication, had forgotten the fact that when Soren was truly, genuinely angry, things would get ugly…

…starting with Shinon's face.

Faster than anyone could blink, Soren whipped an Elwind tome from his robes and muttered the ancient incantation for the spell with practiced ease. Blades of wind materialized out of nowhere, slicing at the archer in fearsome gusts. The sage found himself smiling wickedly hearing Shinon scream. Bastard had it coming for a long time.

Shinon, clothes shredded and visage cut and bleeding, flew from the gusts and tackled Soren to the ground with every intent to kill him. Gasps and shouts of surprise spread like wildfire among the witnesses. Some remained rooted to their spots in fear, while others ran off to find Ike, or someone else that could stop this.

There were yells and cries, flailing limbs, teeth ripping into fabric, fingers and stubby nails tearing at skin. There was hair being pulled, a mess of black ink staining the ground, and a dreadful silence that swelled in the air when Shinon had Soren pinned to the ground. Calloused hands looped the sage's neck, pressing down harder the more Soren struggled.

"Get the hell off of him!" came a roar as Ike flew behind the crowd on onlookers, Gatrie following suit. The commander ordered the knight to restrain Shinon, which he did without a second thought. His strong arms held the sniper as he thrashed about, cursing and screaming that Soren needed to die in the most gruesome and painful ways possible. Gatrie tried to hush the harsh words, much like trying to soothe a fussing child.

Soren coughed and sputtered as he tried to regain his breath. Ike was at his side in an instant, helping the sage sit upright. He offered parts of his cape to stop the blood still trickling from Soren's nostrils, but his staff officer would not accept the gesture. His eyes burned with hatred, glaring at Shinon with such heat that Ike could swear the temperature in the air raised a few degrees. The intensity in those crimson irises remained long after Gatrie had dragged his drunken comrade to the outskirts of camp to vomit his brains out.

Soren made to stand, and Ike helped him to his feet without a word, taking care not to touch the new cuts on his hands and arms. The sage dusted off his robes in silence as well, clearly not wanting to speak of the incident that had just occurred. Ike gathered the few parchment pieces that had miraculously not been damaged and handed them over to his tactician.

"Soren, what in blazes—"

"I must excuse myself, Commander," Soren said hurriedly and vanished before Ike could get a word in edgewise.

* * *

Ike hadn't seen Soren for several hours after the altercation, much to his dismay. He figured he would run into him at least at some point while making his rounds through the camp before retiring to his tent for the night. But Soren was in none of his regular spots—not the supply tent, nor his own tent, nor even Ike's tent. It was as if the sage had just…disappeared.

He did, however, manage to briefly meet up with Gatrie after Shinon had been taken care of (passed out in his tent). The knight was reluctant to inform Ike that he was unable to garner any information about the fight from the smashed sniper. The commander thanked Gatrie and resolved to question the redhead tomorrow, hangover or not. Anyone who harmed his staff officer was undeserving of mercy.

Ike was just passing Mist and Titania's tent when he heard something of a mix between a hiss and a sniffle. He paused mid-step, listening for the source of the sound. He heard it again a few seconds later, and headed past his sister's sleeping quarters to the hill that marked the edge of their temporary campsite. By the light of the moon, Ike spotted a familiar mass of black hair and billowing robes, a bit tousled from earlier.

"Soren?"

Said sage's shoulder stiffened at being addressed. In the time it took him to realize who it was, Ike was already seated next to him on the wet grass.

"Ike," Soren acknowledged curtly, without even sparing his best friend a glance. He flinched away when a gloved hand reached up to ghost his black and blue nose.

"You should get Rhys to look at that nose of yours…and your other wounds," Ike advised, dropping his hand as soon as Soren dodged his touch. He regarded his staff officer with worried eyes, watching him fidget and scratch at the dried blood beneath his nostrils.

It's only broken; it'll heal on its own," Soren insisted, clearly intent on dropping the subject altogether as he was wont to do. Ike sighed in resignation. If there was one thing he knew, Soren was as stubborn as a mule, and then some. Trying to convince him into going to the priest about something as "trivial as a broken nose" as the sage himself would have put it, would be a meaningless effort.

"I lost control."

Ike's head snapped up at Soren's declaration. Red eyes still gazed up at the waxing moon hanging in the sky. "Soren, d—"

"He has no idea how right he is, you know," the sage continued, cutting off his commander. "He said all those things, under the assumption that I'm a spirit charmer. Though,..being Branded isn't any better." Soren's voice adopted a bitter tone, much colder than his normal tone of discontentment. "I don't care about that, though; I know he hates me—the feeling's more than mutual—so he can say whatever he wants. But," he paused, his eyes hardening to stone, obtaining that murderous sheen. "When he started insulting you, I couldn't take it."

Ike just stared incredulously at Soren, taking in what he was just told. Something fluttered in his chest, but he had no clue what it was Relief? Sympathy? Gratitude? After a moment, he finally said, "That's silly, Soren. Shinon's always had it out for me. You didn't have to beat the snot out of him for it." Whatever hint of humor had been in Ike's voice dissipated with his next statement, and his tone morphed into something much more serious. "I'd rather him rant and insult me than have you hurt—or dead—by his hand."

A stuffy hiss reverberated out of Soren's broken nose as his breath hitched. He said nothing, however, giving Ike the opportunity to continue.

"I'm sorry you and Shinon are always getting into fights, Soren…I…should be better at preventing that," the blue-haired general admitted solemnly, hanging his head. Soren's head performed the exact opposite action, his gaze focused on Ike.

"No," Soren said firmly, the clotting of his nose giving his voice a tinny sort of quality. "It's my fault for rising to the bait. I should be better than that…" The sage couldn't help but act a little self-depreciating. To stoop to so low a level that even _Ike_ was feeling sorry for him… _incorrigible_.

"You are, Soren," Ike said. "I just…feel the need to protect you."

If Soren had been the shy, blushing type, his pale face would have flushed as red as his eyes, which were currently wide with shock. All too quickly his surprise faded, and his brows furrowed at the extremely embarrassing confession that fell out of his commander's mouth. "Don't…don't say such things…," Soren bit back, though there was no venom or malice in his statement.

"It's the truth, though," Ike shrugged, not quite understanding why Soren seemed to get all bent out of shape over something that was pretty painfully obvious. He rose to his feet, his tattered cape swishing behind him. His hand extended to his best friend, who stared at it impassively. "Now come on—let's have Rhys look at that nose."

Soren took the proffered hand and hoisted himself up, all the while grumbling about "wasting limited uses of a heal staff" and "how expensive healing items are" and other typical tactician concerns. He followed Ike nonetheless, the pair making their way toward Rhys's tent. He wondered if Ike had noticed their hands still clasped together. He didn't dare bring it up, though, and instead savored the gesture. It spoke volumes about their relationship—Ike only wanted to protect him. Not out of pity, but out of…something else. Something else Soren didn't have the time to ponder over. He had a lot of work ahead of him for the night.


End file.
